


True Love Waits

by starcunning



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: But mostly fluff, Chocolate Box Exchange 2020, F/M, Post-Canon, marta is both oblivious AND pining, pretty fluffy, some references to the incident with Ransom, the 'last of the gentleman sleuths' lives up to the first part of that epithet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:20:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22603870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starcunning/pseuds/starcunning
Summary: About a year and a half after the events of the film, Marta hosts a charity gala and silent auction. But having money doesn't always mean comfort with high society, and there's really only one person on the guest list she wants to see ...
Relationships: Benoit Blanc/Marta Cabrera
Comments: 6
Kudos: 176
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	True Love Waits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Squishy_TRex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squishy_TRex/gifts).



She was out of her element. This was strange only because it was her event—Marta had found herself vaguely discomfited by the trappings of wealth many times since she had become Harlan Thrombey’s nurse, but she’d always had the vague sense that it was different when it was yours. Like so much else, it hadn’t turned out the way she had imagined.

And she didn’t even have the excuse that she was technically working to hide behind.

It was at least quiet in the courtyard—there was the low murmur of conversation from a handful of people standing beneath the arcade and the constant rush of water from the fountain at its center, but that was nothing compared to the insistent drone in Bates Hall, where the curved ceilings seemed to amplify everything.

More to the point, the relative scarcity of people in the courtyard meant fewer of them would feel compelled to offer _Ms. Cabrera_ their condolences or congratulations. The former were belated, but it was the latter that was more bewildering—congratulations on what? It hardly seemed fair to take much credit for the gala; the silent auction, proceeding apace in another hall just off the courtyard, had been arranged and overseen by an auction house that Alan had helpfully recommended, and most everything else she had gladly left in the hands of the Boston Library’s capable event planning staff.

They did fine work, she had to admit, watching the lights glimmer in the lanterns along the footpaths. The flowers and décor struck a fine balance between the elegance expected at such an event and Harlan’s more eclectic sense of style. And they had abided by her one stipulation—despite all the motifs they had borrowed from Harlan’s body of work, there were no knives to be found, prop or otherwise.

In noting their absence, Marta was brought face to face with her reasoning once more. The trial had concluded months ago; Ransom was in jail and not likely to get out again anytime soon. Linda had resources of her own, but she didn’t seem likely to bring them to bear on his behalf. Not with the way she had looked at the sentencing. That had been the last time Marta had seen her—or any of the Thrombeys. Never mind Benoit Blanc, who had retreated to warmer climes and was probably chasing the arc of Gravity’s Rainbow across America.

There was more than a little envy there—this affair was at its end for him, and easy enough to put behind him. An intriguing case, sure, but Marta had to imagine his work was not usually boring. For her there was no way to put the whole affair behind her: she could donate the night’s proceeds to 826 Boston, and set up a trust for Meg, repurpose the house as a writer’s retreat, and take up philanthropy for undocumented immigrants and the uninsured, but even when the money was gone—if it ever could be—her life was never going back to normal. _She_ was never going back to nursing. Fame was not an asset to her the way it was to Blanc.

The sound of footsteps behind her shook her from her reverie, and Marta collected herself, ready for another round of polite small talk with yet another Boston luminary. When she turned, however, she found something else. He was impeccable in his double-breasted tuxedo, black bow tie a little rumpled as though tied by a less experienced hand. She liked that, she decided; it gave him character.

“I was just thinking about you,” Marta said, and then wished that she hadn’t.

“Well, then,” Benoit Blanc replied, “why that surprised look?” He looked a little surprised himself, his smile sitting crooked upon his face. “You did send me an invitation.”

“I didn’t really think you’d come,” she told him. “I had heard you were in Charlotte, in the spring. I thought you might be busy.”

“Well,” he said. “I shouldn’t discuss the particulars until the matter is fully closed. But never mind that—I had to come!”

There was a faint pang in her heart—hope, maybe. It made the candles lining the fountain blaze more brightly in the summer air. “Why is that, detective?”

He smiled again. “There is something of particular interest to me here tonight,” he said. Here he paused, his gimlet eyes fixed on her face. She could feel herself staring blithely back at him: he had never hesitated to offer his opinion in her hearing. After a moment, he cleared his throat and continued, “A statuette with a nautilus shell. Do you know it?”

“The one with the cranes,” Marta said. Her disposition toward honesty did not mean that she had to disclose everything, and for a moment she feared her disappointment showed. She squared her shoulders. “Harlan kept it in his office, it was there when he hired me. Why that one?”

“I suspect that statuette is older than you are,” Blanc told her. “Nevermind your employment with Mr. Thrombey. The shell and the cranes were important in the plot of _Latitude,_ one of Harlan’s early novels. The one on which my father consulted, in fact.”

“Oh,” Marta said, a unexpected laugh climbing out of her throat. “You should have just told me,” she said; “I would have just given it to you. Now you’re going to have to fight it out with Trooper Wagner.”

His smile broadened, then softened. “I can’t say I mind,” Blanc replied. “I would not be in this line of work if I couldn’t enjoy the chase at least a little.”

From another man that would have sounded salacious. She might have even liked to imagine so, coming from him, but the self-deception that would accompany that fantasy made her stomach turn a little. Marta tried her best to keep it from her face, redirecting her train of thought elsewhere.

While she was struggling to find something to say to him that wouldn’t give the whole game away, he spoke instead.

“Miss Cabrera,” he said.

“Marta,” she corrected him. “People who call me _Miss Cabrera_ usually want something.” She could smile at that, at least, and he smiled back.

“Nothing would make me happier,” he said, “than to call you Marta.” He said her name with great care, the way a painter laid a brushstroke or the way Harlan had been so careful with the automata in his home. The way she measured medicine, that was how he said it. “If you would be so very kind as to indulge me on this point of eccentricity, however, I would be most grateful. For, you see, I cannot hope to be but what I am, and all that I am demands a more respectful form of address. And so, Miss Cabrera, I was wondering if you would do me the great honor of accompanying me for a turn about the dance floor.”

“Oh,” she said, and felt the smile rise upon her face. “So I was right about you, and you _do_ want something.”

“I would consider it a sign of your favor,” he said.

“What if I don’t dance?” Marta said.

Benoit smiled. “Then perhaps you might accompany me for a walk instead?”

“Only if you promise not to _Miss Cabrera_ me anymore.”

“Granted,” he said, offering his arm. “You might call me Benoit,” he said, “if you like.”

She never had, and wasn’t that strange? At least not out loud. Perhaps it was only politesse that moved him to offer, but even so she would take advantage. “Benoit,” she said, and she took his arm, feeling the warmth of him against her bare arm even through the dark material of his jacket.

“Marta,” he replied, the _r_ in the middle of her name dropping out so that it was just barely breath in his mouth.

It made her happy in a way that all her newfound money and fame never could, and for a moment she supposed that the way her life had changed was worth it. After all, it had Benoit in it.


End file.
